


Of Clay

by MooseFeels



Series: In the Garden of Your Love [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, Mild Angst, Teenage Castiel, Underage - Freeform, castiel is a debutante, gardener!dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-24
Updated: 2013-05-24
Packaged: 2017-12-12 21:32:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/816277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MooseFeels/pseuds/MooseFeels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean makes mistakes, and it looks like he's not going to stop now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Clay

Dean is twenty and an idiot. He’s not smart like his little brother is, who will go from their Uncle Bobby’s house straight to college in two years. He doesn’t even make good decisions (the scar running under his ribs is proof of that). He’s a fuckup, and he’s okay with it at this point. His brother is okay, and that’s what matters.

He’s a hard worker, and he knows how to follow directions, and when the Miltons give him the job as the gardener, it’s easy as hell. There are sketches and directions for garden design in books in the cottage they’ve provided him with, and there’s even more information online. It’s not that hard- there are a few stumbling blocks (like that patch of yard that’s wildflowers because grass was getting too thick to it and he panicked) but he does okay work and the pay is good. More importantly, though, he’s outside.

Being outside makes Dean better. It grounds him. It makes it easier to take a deep breath and not break things when bad news comes (and with his dad running around, bad news always comes). Makes him less likely to shout and drink.

He’s elbow deep in the roses one day when he looks up and fuck.

See, the Miltons have a son, and the thing is...he’s beautiful. He’s maybe seventeen? Sixteen? All long limbs with runner’s muscle and clear skin and dark hair and blue eyes. Sharp collarbones under expensive shirts and long fingers.

Dean nods a greeting, trying to be polite. And the son- his name is something unfamiliar and religious, some angel no one’s ever heard of or something- smiles slightly and looks deeper into the flowers.

Dean doesn’t sleep too well, these days.

He wakes up, one night, and pulls on a shirt. Decides now is as good a time as any to check for weeds and take care of some slugs. He’s headed outside and he’s to a bed near the house when he sees him.

Castiel, he remembers.

He’s in his pajamas in the moonlight, slim and shorter. His finger is in his mouth, frowning in pain. “You okay?” Dean asks.

Castiel coughs a couple of times (doesn’t he have some health thing? or is that his brother?). “A thorn caught my finger,” he answers. His voice is deeper than Dean would expect. “It’s not too bad.” Dean smiles, awkward.

“I have bandages, in the cottage. Do you need one?” He regrets it as soon as he says it. It was a mistake, judging by the way Castiel starts blushing- evident even in the moonlight and low lighting along the bed.

He looks at his hand to avoid Dean (and can Dean blame him?) and says, “I think it’s not too bad.” He gestures to the bed. “You do beautiful work.”

Dean shrugs. “I do alright,” he answers, honestly. “Nothing to write home about.”

Castiel’s gaze returns to the roses. “No,” he says. “Really, it’s beautiful. Thank you.” His dark hair is mussed from sleeping, curling randomly. His mouth is full and pink. His lashes are dark. He’s so gorgeous, and Dean is going to hell for wanting him.

A light goes on in the house, and Castiel looks at it for a moment. “I’m sorry,” he says, turning to Dean. “Goodnight.”

He runs back into the house, and Dean stands in the garden for a long minute, unsure.

And then Dean’s hands start doing something out of his control. They pull the shears from his back pocket and begin to snip long flowers from their plants. Curving green stems and pink and beige- full rounded roses (that came in early thanks to a little extra love and what Dean is sure was singing the AC/DC to them) and tight buds and messy starpoints of Queen Anne’s lace and the paper thing trumpets of azaleas and the waxy emerald of leaves. He weaves these things together in a way he hasn’t in years into a round.

Dean looks at the big brick house and bites his lips. He isn’t sure why Castiel apologized. He isn’t sure why he was in the garden in the first place. He isn’t sure why he’s made this thing- this crown for a rich prince with more things and more people than Dean could ever imagine- to crowd Castiel’s life. He isn’t sure how he’ll even give it to him.

Dean just knows that they boy is young and rich. Dean just knows he’s old (old at twenty from bar-fights and truancy and whiskey and a life on the road) and poor (dirt fucking poor). Dean just knows that nothing good will come of this thing he’s made, twisting around and around through his fingers.

When Castiel walks into the garden wearing it, Dean’s heartbeat speeds up and he knows that he’s already made a huge mistake.

He knows he can’t stop himself from making a few more. 


End file.
